


Home Is Where The Hurt Is

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Hand Job, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when he's tired, so very tired, and the mere thought of going home to Holmes makes his thigh cramp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Is Where The Hurt Is

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my LJ as a response to a Kinkmeme prompt.

There are days, days with too many dying children and abused women and patients he knows he’ll never cure, days when he wishes he could look away. There are days when he’s tired, so very tired, and the mere thought of going home to Holmes makes his thigh cramp. There are days when he wishes he didn’t have to go home, days when all he wants to do is curl up with a bottle of brandy and pity himself for a bit.

 

His shoulders are tense and every muscle in his body is aching and sore and as much as he doesn’t want to, he pushes the door to Baker Street open nonetheless. With a deep breath, more like a longsuffering sigh, he steadies himself, gets ready for explosions and screeching violins and riding crops poking him in the eye and slippers wet with dog drool. And he almost, almost doesn’t open the door to the sitting room, almost turns around and walks away with no idea where to go. But then the door to Holmes’ room flies open and suddenly he really wishes he had just turned around and ran as fast as his feet would carry him. He doesn’t have time to do so much as sigh, though, before Holmes has padded to his side, warm hand on his arm.

 

“Ah, there you are. I was getting worried, you usually arrive three minutes earlier,” the genuine concern in Holmes’ voice makes Watson bark out a crude imitation of what might have been a laugh.

 

Holmes frowns and tilts his head, hand moving to the small of Watson’s back and gently steering him towards Holmes’ room.

 

“Holmes, I…” Watson sighs, “I had a rough day and could really use some time to myself.”

 

“Nonsense.” For such a small man Holmes is remarkably strong, shoving Watson into his room and locking the door behind them.

 

_Uh oh. _“Holmes, I really—“

 

“Shh,” Holmes sits down on the bed and pats the spot beside him with an expectant expression.

 

“Holmes…” he pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing that protest is futile and that Holmes is likely to have not only locked the door, but thrown the key away as well. He opens his eyes, glaring at Holmes, and it’s only then that he realizes how tidy the room is (for Holmes’ standards anyway), the blazing fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, the dimmed lights…

 

“Holmes, what the devil are you up to?” spotting the vial of oil on the nightstand he groans, “Oh god, you have got to be _kidding_ me.”

 

Holmes follows his gaze and laughs, “Don’t worry, you can keep your trousers on.”

 

“What are you up to?” Watson narrows his eyes suspiciously.

 

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

 

He would glare at Holmes, he really would, but his thigh chooses that precise moment to cramp and seize, making him grind his teeth together and dig his fingers into the torn muscle. Holmes is at his side in an instant, slipping an arm around his waist and helping him limp over to the bed. Sitting on the edge and squeezing his eyes shut as he gasps for breath and hot tears slip from beneath his eyelids, he wishes, more than ever, that he had turned away and gone back to his practice while he still could. He feels humiliated and embarrassed and pathetic and he is furious, furious at Holmes for not letting him be, furious at himself, his body, for being so inadequate. But he doesn’t have much time to mentally kick himself before Holmes is wrapping a warm towel around his seizing thigh, slipping off his shoes and socks and nudging him to lie on his side, bad leg up.

 

Holmes fits himself behind Watson, kisses the back of his neck, coos nonsense into his ear and carefully massages Watson’s tense thigh until the muscles are loose and relaxed again. He waits for Watson’s breath to slow and stop hitching, warm hand rubbing soothing circles on his stomach.

 

“Better?” he asks, barely above a whisper, when Watson stops shivering.

 

A small nod and a squeeze to his hand, followed by a soft “thank you” are the only answer he gets.

 

Holmes tightens his arms around him for a moment, burying his face in the crook of Watson’s neck, before making Watson roll over to lie on his belly.

 

“Holmes, what—,” his voice is muffled by the pillow.

 

“Shh, just let me,” Holmes murmurs as he divests him of his jacket and waistcoat, carefully unbuttoning his shirt and slipping that off as well, shushing Watson’s half-hearted protests and kissing his tense shoulders.

 

Straddling Watson’s body, Holmes uncorks the little bottle and pours a generous amount of oil into his cupped palm, the faint scent of lavender filling the room and making Watson relax a bit under Holmes. The feeling of Holmes’ warm hands rubbing the oil into his skin, kneading his knotted muscles and pushing against just the right spots makes Watson groan in the back of his throat. He can feel his body get loose and relaxed, muscles unknotting and pain fading away. Holmes’ hands slow down then and his strokes become lazier, more languorous. Watson arches into Holmes’ touch, turning this way and that to get Holmes to rub just the right spot, moaning his pleasure as Holmes kneads his sore neck.

 

He shifts slightly and gasps softly as he feels his clothed erection rub against the bed. Holmes chuckles breathlessly and, with a gentle nip to Watson’s earlobe, makes Watson turn over again, his slick back against Holmes’ chest. Watson’s limbs feel heavy and everything is somewhat muffled even as the smallest touch from Holmes makes him gasp and writhe. Slick hands reach up to tweak his nipples and he twists his head to be able to kiss Holmes, tongues tangling messily. Holmes unbuttons his trousers, pulling out his cock and simply holding it in his hand for a few moments, relishing in the weight and warmth of it, faintly throbbing in his oily palm.

 

He bites and licks at Watson’s neck, squeezing his cock before starting a slow, gentle pace, stroking from root to tip. Watson is arching into Holmes’ hand, moaning softly and twisting his fingers into the sheets when Holmes rubs the glossy head of his cock, presses his thumb against the weeping slit. He can feel Holmes’ own erection pressing against his rear and he wants to reach behind him and return the favour, but his arms don’t obey him and all he can do is roll his hips and relish the strangled groan Holmes releases. And soon, all too soon, he feels his orgasm building at the base of his spine, white hot heat and when his cock jerks in Holmes’ grip, semen covering his hand and Watson’s lower belly, he only gasps and it leaves him boneless and utterly limp and warm and relaxed. Holmes shudders behind him, biting Watson’s neck as he comes into his own trousers, hips stilling their motions.

 

Watson vaguely notes Holmes getting up and changing into clean trousers, wiping him clean and tucking him back in, but it’s all hazy and blurred and the only thing he really remembers is Holmes kissing his temple and holding him close as he falls asleep.


End file.
